


Vapor

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Fallen Castiel, M/M, Post Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:24:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post-8.23, timeskip. canon-divergent AU. Dean/Cas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vapor

For a year, they search for him in hospitals. The angels all match, a phenomenon everyone is too shocked to really put a name to; they fall to the earth identical, scars down their backs, burn-marks deep and indelible, skittering alongside their spines. They fall into water, the lucky ones; others onto rooftops, into tall grass; the less lucky collide with the ground without cushion, and shatter to pieces. It’s – messy.  

Dean knows he’s alive, at first. With the decision he and Sam made there are so many things to do at once, but when the angels start falling Dean finds himself in a familiar situation, his only desire to find Cas. Get Cas home. Bring them all together again.

But Hunters or not, it’s harder than they imagined to find him. They call every hospital in the state, then in the fucking  _country,_ asking for a blue-eyed, dark-haired man with scars down his back; maybe he’s lost his memory, maybe he doesn’t know who he is, but please – they say down the line, time and again – please, he’s got a family. Please send him to us. Send him home.

He never shows up. The sympathetic voices down the phone lines repeat.

Sam sometimes wonders if Castiel was just unlucky, like always; if he was one of the few who didn’t survive the fall; but like with Sam, like with his Dad, Dean  _knows_ Castiel is still alive, can  _feel_ that he’s still there, somewhere.

The dreams begin, and he mistakes them for a sign; weird impressions, blinks of starlight, white-gold impressions on suede skies. He rouses Sam after the first one –  _I know where we can find him, he came to me in a dream –_ but when they get there the copse is empty, surrounded by felled trees, and Sam doesn’t recognize it, but Dean – Dean does, all too well. The site of his resurrection, just above where they began; and empty. There’s still a hole in the ground, still a clawed-out coffin, still scatters of rain-packed earth, and for a moment Dean just stares.

“Dean, is he here?” Sam asks him carefully – for they can’t see him, but maybe Dean knows – but Dean just shakes his head. He looks embarrassed.

“Just a dream.” He says, soft, to himself. He looks at the ground. “Fuck.”

And so it goes. Dean dreams of Castiel; white lights in the Pit, the noise of wings, the warmth of his hand on Dean’s shoulder, of their single embrace. He thinks maybe they’re a reminder;  _keep looking for me, keep going –_ but a year passes with nothing, no word, no clue, and one day, sitting in the car, Sam flicks through a newspaper and then sighs.

“Dean, I think-“ and Dean knows what he’s going to say.

“Yeah.” he can still feel the stirring in his chest, but he doesn’t know what it is, anymore. If maybe it’s just grief mistaken for purpose. If Castiel lives within him, but no longer in the world without. He can’t say the words.

Sam, gently, interrupts his silence. “Sounds like a salt and burn.” He says, skirting a finger against the newspaper article he’s reading, and Dean doesn’t even bother to lean over and look.

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

And he thinks he’s moving on, but there’s still a twist in his chest when they see another of Castiel’s brothers and sisters; how they lie in the streets, destitute and alone, crying out to the sky that rejected them. How some of them adapt strangely quickly, dressing in the shabby suits they fell in, ordering cups of coffee and wincing when they lean back against a chair. He knows some of their names – Inias, Ion, Raziel. He learns others; Temeluchus, Gagiel, Eremiel. They are solitary, divided from their mass, some unable to use telephones, to contact each other. The world reels from thousands of new inhabitants, from their strangeness, their desperate violence. Dean just asks them questions –  _Have you heard from Castiel?_ And some of them just shake their heads, eyes empty, and say no. And others reel back and punch forward, grab for Dean’s clothes, scream their outrage and their terror in his face –  _no I haven’t seen him, have you seen what he did to us? Have you seen how he has broken us? –_  and some days Dean thinks, _have you seen how he’s broken me?_

Other days he just twitches their hands from his clothes, and walks away.

Two years later, Dean doesn’t know whether to punch him or just walk the fuck away.

Twenty-three months; ninety two fucking weeks. Six hundred and forty-four days – and Castiel just appears on their doorstep. There’s no trench, no sensible shoes. He’s a ragged figure in an ill-fitting sweater and filthy loafers, jeans that are torn at the knees; and when Dean answers the door he just says “Dean.”

Dean almost slams the door shut again.

Later – after the screaming, after  _where the fuck were you,_ after  _We looked for you, we tried to find you, didn’t you try to find us?_ – he and Castiel are alone, and Castiel sits cross-legged on the motel bed, and his eyes are soft and so  _sad._

“What did you do all this time?” he asks Dean, and Dean smiles bitterly.

“Look for you. Hunt.” He shrugs. He looks away. “Same old.”

“Did you miss me?” Castiel asks, quietly, and Dean looks at him and barks a laugh. He’s shaking.

“Fuck.” He shakes his head. His eyes sting. “Yeah, I fucking missed you, you dick.”

“Why?” Castiel asks him, totally blithe, and Dean lifts his head and  _stares._

The pieces fell into place a long time ago. He knows what he’s feeling; what he  _felt._ “Why the fuck do you think?”

Castiel closes his eyes. “I don’t have a scar.” He says to Dean, and looks bereft. “I’m the only one who wasn’t injured in my descent. I woke on the ground. Whole.” He digs his hands into his hair, and Dean realises it’s a gesture Castiel has learned in their time away from each other. The fact of it makes him feel strange.“My wings didn’t burn.” He says, and his voice grows thick. “They’re still here.”

“You didn’t –“

“I Fell.” Castiel corrects him, quickly. “They’re dead.”

“Cas.”

Castiel shrugs. “I’ve gotten used to it.” He looks at Dean. “I missed you. I didn’t think you’d want me back. I –“ he laughs gently. “We didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“When  _do_ we?” Dean looks him over, rapt with how different he is. He’s clean-shaven for once, and it looks fucking  _weird._ His hair is longer. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want you to find me.”

“I’m not what I was.”

“Who is?”

“ _Dean.”_

“No, seriously. Who is? Who’s a fucking angel, anymore? Who gives a fuck?” He stands; he walks over. “I was in love with you.” He says, quickly, and Castiel looks at him. “I was so fucking gone on you, man. I  _loved_ you.” He shakes his head. “And you kept leavin’, and I was tired, but I didn’t … _not_ love you.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be any use to you, anymore.” Castiel says, words coming from his mouth in slow trickles, and Dean shrugs as he reaches the bed; as he puts his hands on Castiel’s shoulders.

“We’ll think of something.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is, if you let it.” Dean looks down, then back up again. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m _pissed._ I looked for you for so fucking long, I thought you were fucking  _dead,_ I thought that was  _it-“_ his breaths shudder out of him at the memory of grief, of that night he had no idea if his brother or the angel would survive until the next day; if he was going to lose both, everything, in one fell swoop, as burning bodies fell from the sky. “You’re a fucking asshole not to look for me. Worse, thinking I wouldn’t want you.” He shakes his head. “When haven’t I wanted you?” He says, earnest, and Castiel helplessly shrugs.

“I didn’t know.”

“Then you’re a fucking idiot.” He pauses. “And we’ll work it out.”

“You want me to stay?”

“Yeah, we fucking want you to stay. If you can handle it.”

“And Sam?”

“Sam maybe more than me.” He smiles.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean shrugs. “There’s a lot we’re all fucking sorry for. Don’t say it.” His fingers tighten on Castiel’s shoulders. “Make it up to me.” He looks him right in the eyes, to emphasise the point. “Stay.”

Castiel reaches for him then; pulls them together. His chest trembles; his breaths heat Dean’s shoulder. “Everything’s different.” He says, softly.

Dean wraps his arms around him in response. “I told you, man. We’ll work it out.” He turns his head, and kisses Castiel’s neck, brief. Feels the angel – ex-angel – freeze at the touch. “Just stick around, and we’ll work it out.” His voice is muffled by Castiel’s skin. He smells different. “I can’t promise you we’ll make it all okay, Cas, but we’ll –“ he laughs. His chest is so tight he thinks he might die. “We’ll try.”

He pauses. He pulls back, and looks Castiel in the eyes, and sees how much he has changed; and loves him no less. “You’re home, buddy.” He says, and Castiel smiles that funny little smile; the one he’s missed so much.

“Home.” He repeats, more thoughtful than agreeing with him, but Dean will take it,  if it’s all Castiel can give.  


End file.
